


the passenger

by dundee998



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Human Bill Cipher, Other, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 20:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6209332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dundee998/pseuds/dundee998
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU prompt: Person A is thinking sexually graphic or generally odd thoughts and suddenly panics and thinks “If you’re a mind reader, cough right now.”<br/>Person B coughs.</p><p>young community college graduate stanford pines meets a stranger on the train.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the passenger

Ford hears a cough, and immediately feels a hot burn spread up his face and to his ears. As calmly and inconspicuously as possible, (when one's head is a glowing red beacon, and one is also trying to disguise a moderate sized chub) Ford peers around at the other train passengers to see who might have made the incriminating sound. Bored faces avoid eye contact at every seat. Was it just a coincidence? Did he imagine the sound over the loud clatter of the train? Wait, was... was that a smirk? Ford carefully does not look directly at this passenger, but he can tell they wear a wry smile as they turn a page in their book. Clean-lined clothes, clean-cut figure, and a gold-tipped cane at their feet. It... it was probably nothing, Ford thinks to himself, and goes back to trying to put the thing in his lap back to sleep.

_-cough, cough-_

A gloved hand arranges itself demurely before that grinning mouth. Ford's eyes lock onto the passenger. He is somewhat aware of the feelings of horror and desperate disbelief, but mostly he is numb. They're masculine, with a sharp ageless face and near colorless hair. The book resting on their crossed leg is completely blank. They glance up from pretending to read, and look up at Ford for a split second.

The train starts slowing down to a stop, and the car is bustling with hot sweaty bodies and too-bulky luggage. Ford squeezes his thighs tight as the momentum sends everyone off balance, and he makes a small tiny noise in his throat that is lost in the clatter and chatter and roar. This isn't his stop, but he needs to get out of here. He needs fresh air. He grabs his briefcase, drops it to wipe his grossly sweating hands on his thighs, and then picks it up again.

“Pretty sure you've got two more stops before we hit Portland, pal." There's the twisted grin in his peripheral vision again, and the tip of a black polished cane resting on his battered briefcase. In the chaos, the Passenger had slipped into the seat next to him. Ford would really appreciate a heart attack right about now.

The doors close on the car's new batch of travelers - a whole new world of human smells and sounds and overstimulation. Ford's heart is caught in his throat, trapped on this seat by his own vice and the unclear intentions of a stranger, presumably telepathic. As the train judders to a start, Ford snatches the briefcase from under the shining cane and arranges it on his lap. He thinks, very clearly and deliberately, _'What do you want.'_

The Passenger merely shifts in their seat, leans back and crosses their legs in imitation of Ford. The book lays next to them, all pretense surrendered. They have very nice legs. The grin stays.

Ford gulps, and grips his briefcase tighter. The ambiguity of the situation should be terrifying, and he is properly terrified on some level. On another level, blood rushes hotter and thicker and more agonizing. He's starting to have trouble remembering how to breathe. _‘Are you listening to me or not?'_

 **‘Nope.'** The word appears in his mind unbidden, tasting of gold and clean fire.

Ford wants to laugh. He wants to choke this stranger. He wants to pull their very nice legs onto either side of his hips and grind, he wants, ohhh he wants.

 **‘Can you want a little quieter, fella, we're still in public.'** Ford whips his head towards the stranger. Their grin twitches slightly higher. He can catch a glimpse of a canine tooth, slightly sharper than expected. **‘Patience, big guy. if you've still got your lil problem to deal with by the time we hit Portland, I’ll help you out with it. Deal?'**

Here, finally, the stranger turns to Ford, to stick out their hand. Their eyes are a pretty pale blue, but if Ford isn't mistaken, the right one is made of glass. Still blushing hot, still clutching the briefcase so tight it's leaving six-fingered dents, Ford reaches over and shakes the stranger's hand. Their smile goes from wry to downright wicked, and that canine is definitely pointier than it ought to have been. The glove under his rough fingers feels slick and cool, but the grip is tight for such a slender hand, and then it’s gone. **‘Name’s Bill. And you?’**

_‘Can’t you read my mind?’_

**‘I’m not quite that all-knowing, sixer.’**

_‘Then please, call me Ford.’_

 

 

The rest of the train trip is… interesting. As the train clatters along, he muses on the dream that had prompted this… indecent event, but this time around it’s slightly different. The ropes are more realistic, he can almost feel the texture biting into his skin, and in place of the anonymous hands that had pinched and soothed, he finds a pair of black leather gloves, cool and soft and merciless. He doesn’t suspect anything but his own filthy imagination, until one of the gloves in his mind’s eye slips between his lips, and he swears he can almost taste its bitterness. Ford’s eyes slam open, one hand unconsciously touching his lips. Bill is… sleeping, it looks like. Interesting.

The train is shuddering to a halt again. This is the last stop before Portland. Last stop before… whatever it is this Bill person has promised. The car empties, and fills, and Ford watches Bill’s chest rise and fall, and as the clatter starts up again, he drifts off.

 

Slick, bitter fingers slip into his mouth, and a cold thumb cradles his cheek. The ropes are mixed in with chains now, smooth and heavy and clinking gently. Ford’s breath stutters as more fingers crawl down his front, tangling in rich brown curls and clamping down with a sharp awful pleasure. Sweat drips down his back, cuts paths across his face. He groans around the fingers, closing his eyes tight and straining against his bonds to feel them cut deeper down, and a delighted cackle echoes around him.

“Now arriving at Union Station, Portland Oregon.” Ford wakes up with a gasp. That wasn’t just a daydream, he’d actually fallen asleep. Next to him, Bill stretches out long, long arms, showing off the gold and black satin waistcoat that fit that figure so nicely. They turn to him with a knowing sparkle. “Ready, Ford?”

Ford declines to respond, instead standing up with his briefcase in hand and a thick burning need in his gut. In this crowd, no one is going to be staring at some middle-aged professor’s crotch. Bill twists through the mass of passengers, one hand on Ford’s arm, and guides him through the boiling mess of humanity trying to get from one place to another.

 

 

One bus ride later, made even more uncomfortable than usual by the inappropriate fantasies that tangled up his own twisted needs and Bill’s peculiar interference, they stand in front of a skyscraping building, decorated with shrubs and statues and the smell of expensively clean floors. Bill glances back at him with a wink - Ford thinks this eye is the real one - and guides him inside, bypassing the concierge entirely. The elevator is made of marble tiles and mirrored walls, and Ford has to grip onto the brass railing for support when Bill takes this moment to, well, climb him like a tree.

Bill’s mouth on his neck, and a hand on his neck, a second on his ass, and is that… that feels like a third slipping down the lines of his hips, but Bill’s mouth keeps him dizzy and lightheaded. Maybe he’s counting wrong. Maybe there’s more to Bill than telepathy. Maybe logic can kiss his ass. Ford bites back a groan and grabs back at Bill; one large hand neatly catches Bill’s trim waist, and the other goes to that golden hair and tugs. Bill laughs into his mouth and bites down on his lip as the elevator slows to a stop, nearly sending the two tumbling.

Ford is… very lightheaded, from the kisses and the deceleration, and the beautiful hotel walls are just a blur as Bill guides him to a door and opens it without a key.

“I-I don’t understand,” stammers Ford as Bill slams against the wall and nips at his skin with every button undone. _‘Why me? I have a handful of degrees, but I’ve never really - ah - made anything of myself, oh god-‘_

Blue flames billow up in his mind, hot and peppery and amused. **‘Don’t sell yourself short, sixer, you’ve barely gotten started. The things I could show you… Heck, why not start now?’** Ford’s entire self sort of crunches up, then drops loosely like cut marionette strings. Bill’s finished unbuttoning Ford's shirt, and is breathing hotly against the pathetically tight zipper keeping his dick tied down. Two eyes look up at him, crinkled with mischief - one bright and lively, the other sparkling and dead. Ford brushes a golden bang out of the way to better see. One pointed fang juts out in that jaunty smile, and Bill unzips his pants in a mercifully swift stroke.

Bill’s face cracks a wide, delighted smile at the fat shape straining at his briefs, and before Ford has to listen to some sort of lewd commentary about his size or the dark wet spot spreading at the tip, he shoves the briefs out of the way and tugs Bill’s face to meet his aching dick eye to glassy eye.

Bill touches the swelling tip gently with one fingertip, and seems hypnotized by the way the translucent slick clings to the leather material; they lick the gloved digits with a soft pink tongue, and then the dripping head itself. Ford’s hands scrabble at the wall for support. Bill’s eyes light up at the taste, and they pop the head in their mouth with an enthusiastic hum, clever hands stroking and pressing and squeezing. Hot tears spark at Ford’s eyes and drip onto his glasses; he gasps for breath in little panting moans. “B-Bill, I, aahhh, hhh, I’m c-close–“

Bill wraps one hand tight around the base of his dick, the other disappearing below where Ford can’t see, and Ford nearly screams as Bill takes him down the back of their throat. The hotel room goes fuzzy in his vision; the only thing he can make out clearly is Bill’s eyelashes lowered in concentration, Bill’s sleek leather gloves stained with fluid, Bill’s clever awful mouth forced out of its stupid smirk and wrapped around Ford’s own cock. Ford convulses and cries out, and Bill opens their hand and gives him release.

The hotel goes blank.

It’s not coming back.

Ford wonders if he’s died for real.

All in all, not that bad of a way to go.

**Oh, Fordsy, don’t think I’m letting you off that easy. we’ve just barely begun.**

Shining blue chains stretch out from the white blankness and clamp down on Ford’s limbs. He struggles for a moment; this isn’t what he expected. He definitely doesn’t expect the figure that seems to slip into existence in front of him. It’s superficially humanoid, superficially similar to the passenger he met on the train today. Officially, weird. Ford is terrified and thrilled and harder than he's ever been in his life.


End file.
